


The Thousandth Kiss

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Gen, Kissing, M/M, Writing Exercise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-18
Updated: 2014-06-18
Packaged: 2018-02-05 03:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1803829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a writing exercise, a bit of character study, and a bit of sentiment. Mycroft would chitter like a peeved squirrel if he were forced to read it. But--</p><p>He might also copy it to a secret thumb drive and never admit he cared except at soppy Christmas times when the punch gets the better of him. </p><p>Lestrade would just read it and get a doofy smile. But then, he's Lestrade, and not half so tetchy about sentiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thousandth Kiss

 

Everyone notices the first kiss. How not? After all, the novelty alone, the fear, the insecurity, the adrenaline rush of risk—what’s not to notice? And if the first kiss goes well, the second, tenth, hundredth, all come too soon for fair assessment.

The thousandth kiss, though… that one has to be considered. Even assuming ten kisses per day on average, that’s a hundred days into a relationship. Long enough to know which way to turn your head. Long enough to know that when your partner’s allergies act up, kissing becomes a complex matter of timing and tenderness balanced with oxygen deprivation—a not entirely appealing form of breath play. Long enough to know which side of the bed he claims, and when he likes to get up, and how gracious he is about the fact that you’d rather die staked out on an ant hill than get up at the same time. A hundred days. You’ve been “involved” for going on a third of a year…or more than a quarter, in any case.

That’s a kiss to think about.

In this case, though, the thousandth kiss goes largely unnoticed by both Mycroft and Lestrade. It’s exchanged in the middle of the night, neither fully awake. Lestrade has woken and made a loo-run, not bothering to really reach consciousness, and has wandered back, heading for the warm bed and the warm lover like a swallow returning to Capistrano. He arrives to find that Mycroft, in a sleep-muddled search for his companion, has migrated into Lestrade’s half of the bed. He’s not really awake either, but a soft, worried frown has begun that will, if Lestrade doesn’t return, lead to a fretful, unhappy waking in the morning.

Lestrade has returned, though. He grumbles softly, and pokes Mycroft’s shoulder, not as gently as he thinks he has.

“Move over,” he mumbles, diction a bit blurry around the edges.

Mycroft’s eyes snap open, and there is the usual fraction of a second as he decides whether the intruder must be dealt with as a lethal enemy operative who’s about to attack him in his own bed—or his lover, who’d like some of _his_ own bed returned to him. As usual, Mycroft’s ability to wake knowing exactly where he is proves useful, and spares Lestrade a hearty thwack from a man trained in martial arts, if not particularly fond of them. He rolls and squiggles, ceding the territory he’s claimed during Lestrade’s absence.

Lestrade slips into the bed, then, and proceeds to twist and squirm and pound pillows into arcane shapes, until he’s managed to achieve his own peculiar notion of comfort. Having done so, he pulls Mycroft close, and drops a kiss on his lover’s brow. That’s the nine-hundred and ninety-ninth kiss.

Mycroft, performing his own dance, opens up a bit of space between them—not for lack of love, but Lestrade is always too warm, and too fond of clinging. They compromise on this, as on many things. Bleary and fond, and to make up for the distance, Mycroft stretches his neck and brushes Lestrade’s lips softly with his own, waiting to determine the response. He feels Lestrade’s lips curl in a smile, and then begin the nibbling, gentle reaction. Soon they’re both kissing, lazily, without purpose or focus, without plans for the future or concerns for the past. Tongues brush lightly, lips nip and press and caress against each other.

“Mmmmm,” Lestrade sighs. He draws back and butts his head softly against Mycroft’s. “You serious about this?”

“Could be. Meeting at seven, though.”

“Fuck that,” Lestrade says, and drops the one-thousand and first kiss on waiting lips, quick and loving, but chaste. “Tomorrow night’s soon enough.”

“Mmmmhmmmm,” Mycroft murmurs, already well on the way to complete sleep. He rolls over, spooning—yet another compromise that lets him breathe, while still maintaining closeness.

Lestrade would be perfectly happy face to face, holding his lover all night long, breathing in as Mycroft breathes out. He’s used to this, now, though, and he knows by things like Mycroft’s earlier invasion of his side of the bed that he’s welcome and loved. He slips an arm around Mycroft’s waist, just over the points of his hips, and snugs him close. Comfortable, content, secure, he drops into sleep. When Mycroft wakes at half-five he will rouse for mere seconds, exchange a very blurry, indistinct thousand and second kiss, and drop back into sleep. Only that evening, after dinner, will they exchange a hot, aware, torchy thousand and third kiss.

This, however, was the thousandth kiss…and, in its own way, it has been a perfect little miracle of love.


End file.
